Dancing
by Brynn McK
Summary: Buffy and Spike meet up to patrol. On the way, they do a little thinking... As if there aren't enough Spike/Buffy fics in the world. :)
1. Vampire

Disclaimer: I am not even making a shiny nickel off of this. Joss is God, I bow before his creative genius.

Rating: PG-13 or R, 'cause there's some sex, and because Buffy and Spike get to say all the words you KNOW they'd be saying if they weren't on prime time

Spoilers: Everything through Gone

Feedback: Yes please! Positive or negative. Here or at tmeyerswa@yahoo.com

A/N: My attempt to explore/explain the slight case of multiple personality disorder that seems to be afflicting Buffy and Spike this season. Also, be warned of a little Angel-bashing ahead. Personally, I like Angel. I have no problem with him. But Spike sure does. So just bear in mind that Spike's opinions do not necessarily reflect the opinions of the author, and we'll get along fine. J 

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Spike stalked along the dark streets of Sunnydale, muttering a constant stream of curses under his breath. He could feel her already, as if his heightened senses could pick her out among all the other walking Happy Meals, singing along his skin even though she had to be a mile away yet. It infuriated him, enticed him, drew him on, even against his better judgment. They had fallen into a pattern, he and the Slayer--patrolling, then sparring, then, more often than not, the searing kisses and mind-numbing sex that always culminated in her absence in the morning. Not exactly his idea of the perfect date, but he was taking what he could get. Still, he wondered, as his boots struck the pavement in a steady swagger, how long it would be till he reached the end of his rope, already stretched almost to the breaking point. He pushed the limits every night, unable and unwilling to stay away, to admit defeat. But it wasn't easy. Hence the swearing, and the brooding that was becoming so constant he was making himself ill with it_. Giving Peaches a run for his money these days_, he thought, and his face twisted in a mocking half-laugh, half-snarl.

It had been much more bearable at the beginning. In fact, sometimes he was overwhelmed still by the wonder of that first kiss. Well, he supposed technically it wasn't their first kiss--there had been Willow's twisted my-will-be-done spell (and even then he had marveled, through his hatred, at how good the Slayer's lips tasted), and that all-too-brief moment when she had tried to fool him into thinking she was a robot. He wondered if she'd noticed that he'd been the only one of her circle able to tell the difference between her and the machine. In any case, none of it counted. None of it, until that ridiculous dancing demon debacle, his humiliating stint as troubadour, and his less-than-dramatic exit. _Another alley_, he'd thought at the time_, Another rejection. Par for the course, mate_. And then suddenly, out of bitter ashes there came the liquid pull of her eyes dragging him towards her, and he didn't even care that he was fucking singing again, he just knew that he could feel electricity arcing between them and he knew, with every fiber of his undead being, that for once she needed something that he could give.

Then their lips touched, and his brain dissolved, disjointed thoughts and sensations bubbling their random way to the surface. Had he thought he was drowning in her before? Then now he was drowned, surely, and somehow the Powers That Be had screwed up and allowed a vampire into this heaven that was the feel of her hair clinging to his hand, the desperate grip of her fingers on his arm. _Warm,_ he thought distantly, she was so warm, like sunlight that caressed without burning. After all of his waiting and doomed longing, he could hardly believe that he was being allowed to touch her, to explore her, to feel the way her body fit against his, to hear the tiny, hungry sounds she made as he shifted his mouth over hers. Lust and love and pain and joy all tangled together, slammed into his gut like a wrecking ball. And when she finally tore herself away from him and ran off into the night, all he could do was stare after her, shocked with the loss of her heat and the realization that he, who had called himself a poet, had no words for what he had just experienced.

Later, of course, his defenses clicked back into place, and he laughed at how his mind had tried to frame the kiss in similes. _"Sunlight that caressed without burning?"_ he mocked inwardly. _You always were a bloody awful poet, you git_. And when she'd rejected him the night after, he'd tried to tell himself it was no less than he'd expected, that he'd simply been in the right place at the right time to catch a curtain-closing snog. But he knew that wasn't all. He knew there had to be more. She'd left the dance in the middle of a measure, and she'd have to finish it, soon or late. He wouldn't accept any other possibility.

He was a simple, straightforward sort of bloke—he loved and fought and argued and killed and celebrated with equal intensity, no holds barred. And proud of it. Where William's passions had been repressed, Spike's were unleashed on anyone and anything who dared come near him. Only his sarcasm provided any reprieve, and that was a passion in itself, one of many weapons in his arsenal. In fact, those had been the two things that had driven him mad about Angelus—well, aside from the whole seducing-his-girlfriend-for-a-lark bit. He'd never understood how a being could be so utterly humorless as Angelus was, or how someone so powerful could stand to skulk and plot and hide in shadows when there were clearly so many stand-up fights just begging to be had. 

And things hadn't improved much when the gypsies had mojoed good old Angelus into becoming the Ensouled One. Maybe a tiny glimmer of humor here and there, but still with the brooding and the tortured eyes and the I-know-I-was-a-vicious-killer-but-I'm-really-sorry-now-so-please-pity-me bollocks. It had been enough to put Spike right off his blood on many occasions, not least the time when the stupid pillock buggered off to L.A. in a beautiful, touching, monumentally fuckwitted display of self-sacrifice, leaving Buffy confused and grieving. Now Spike hadn't exactly had warm and fuzzy feelings for the Slayer at the time (_or had he? Dru had thought so_), but he did know a little bit about love, and he was pretty sure it didn't mean dooming the beautiful lady to months of lonely self-doubt just because things got a bit rough. And the Grand Poof hadn't even had the stones to move for real, just moped his way up the coast a bit where he could still drop in and rip her heart out when he was bored. Spike could feel his game face fighting its way to the surface just thinking about it. _Jealous much?_ He could almost hear Dawn's voice in his mind. And she'd be right, in that annoying way she had. In the deep recesses of his mind, he knew that Angel had suffered too. But ultimately, it didn't matter. Angel had had Buffy, really _had_ her—heart, body, and soul devoted to him in a way that she'd never risked before or since, a gift that Spike knew he was unlikely ever to receive. Angel had had all of that, and he'd thrown it away. And that, Spike would never understand, and never forgive.

Because Spike wasn't a hero, like Angel. He wasn't a champion, or whatever bloody thing the Souled Wonder was calling himself these days. He was a monster, and she made him want to remember how to be a man. Maybe it was noble of Angel to have left her, but nobility wasn't exactly high on Spike's list of priorities. Being a bad-ass, now, that was important. Style. Intelligence. Even honor, to a point. But nobility? He'd known too many nobles for that. He had spent one hundred and forty-seven days in a Buffy-less world, and it wasn't an experience he was planning on repeating anytime soon. The concept of trying to stop loving her never occurred to him. It was quite simple, really. He loved her, and he loved Dawn, and he wanted to make them happy. And if he couldn't do that, damned if he wouldn't stake himself trying. 

Of course, Buffy did have a habit of making him want to kill her. Several times a day. On a good day. He grinned fondly, thinking of the way she had of curling one lush lip as she delivered some biting retort. God, he loved fighting with her. Verbally, physically, it didn't matter, she was the most adept dancing partner he'd ever had. Strong and fearless and smart, she was the ideal adversary. And yet she had a fragility, a barely-contained sorrow about her now that broke his bloodless heart. Half the time he didn't know whether to kiss her or smack her. He'd done quite a bit of both, that night in the now-demolished old house, and somehow it had all seemed to blend together in a way that made sense. It had been so seamless, the transition from the fight to the sex, the way it should be. All part of the dance. From the moment she'd kissed him, her fist crushing through the wall behind them, he had known that there would be no running away this time. He had never wanted anything so much in his entire unlife (or his life, for that matter), man and demon intertwined in hot, blind need. He wanted to touch her everywhere at once. He wanted to devour her in a way that had something to do with his vampiric instincts but more to do with the need to do everything, to be everything for her, to crawl inside her skin and wrap himself around her soul. He was lost, and he knew it. At that moment, someone could have staked him six ways to Sunday and he wouldn't have even noticed. 

'Course, the way he remembered it, he hadn't been the only one having a good time. His eyes lit with feral satisfaction as he remembered the look on her face when she'd driven herself down onto him, the wide-eyed shock and pleasure. He was pretty sure that image would keep his chilled body warm for the rest of his days—which might not be that many, if he kept hanging out with this gang. But strangely enough, he liked that, too. Sure, since he'd come to Sunnydale he'd been flattened by an organ, deserted by the woman he'd loved for a century, and neutered by poster boys for Psycho Government GI Joe (taser sold separately). Not to mention, shortly thereafter, falling in love with the one woman he was supposed to kill above all others. But at least it had never been boring.

So why wasn't that enough? He had blood and beer in the fridge, plenty of demons just waiting for him to kick their scaly asses, and a hot-blooded, maddening Slayer with a taste for experimentation to warm his bed. Sometimes even when she was visible. Not exactly how he'd imagined his career as a vampire turning out, but he had all the basics covered. He should be, to borrow Red's phrase, rolling in puppies. Well, maybe puppies and blood. And scotch. And money. And the adoration of a certain blonde who'd recently chopped off her long locks to spite him, well, that wouldn't hurt either. But in general, by historical Spike standards, this wasn't such a bad gig. So why was he up days, smoldering his way over to the Summers household instead of enjoying his beauty sleep?

He thought it might be because of her eyes. They were so blank now, so different from those of the girl he'd first seen dancing in the Bronze, five years ago. Of course she had grown up, that was inevitable (and fortunate, considering her "chosen" profession, so to speak). But he wished old Dame Fortune hadn't fucked with her quite so badly in the process. He loved the darkness in her, even thought she was better for it. But, for no reason that he could explain, he had loved the light, too. It was the combination that enthralled him. And now she was just empty—no spark, no fire, just cold, hard steel. The only exception was when she was in his arms, her desperate, violent kisses thrilling and unbearably sad at the same time. Even though just the smell of her made him want her so badly he could hardly see straight, somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that their relationship, as it was now, wasn't exactly of the good.

So mostly, he tried make it good. Tried to make her smile. Tried to watch her back. Tried to take care of Dawn, though the gods knew he made a sorry enough babysitter. At least taking care of Dawn was far from a hardship, which was lucky, seeing as the little bit got into more trouble than he would have thought possible for a newborn bundle of mystical energy--somehow she aroused the same protective instincts in him that his poor, mad Drusilla had. Despite the fact that Buffy would likely have staked him on the spot for the comparison. But even if he'd hated Dawn, he would've looked after her, for Buffy's sake. He'd even saved Harris' skin a time or two, and if that wasn't a bleeding sacrifice he didn't know what was. 

Even the sex was a sacrifice of sorts, when as soon as she came to him he had to start preparing himself for when she'd say something cruel and leave. The first time, it had been a shock; now, it was almost habit. Yet it still hurt, every single time. But he was good at sex--he'd had a hundred years to work on it, after all--and if his skill could drive that horrible blankness from her eyes for one night, he could deal with being ruthlessly shot down when it was over. Besides, what man was strong enough to refuse the woman he loved when she came to him so hungry and wanting?

Still, there were times when he remembered how easy the darkness had been, without the guilt and the conscience and the sodding white hat to cock everything up. Sometimes, when he saw the darkness threatening to overwhelm her, he felt a wild desire to encourage it, to feed it till it swallowed her up and she no longer had any reason to turn him away. Because, deep down in places he didn't care to look too often, he knew he was scared stoneless. Yep, that's right, kiddies. He, the legendary Spike, the slayer of Slayers, was scared. Scared that if she found the light again, she'd leave him alone in the darkness. And while darkness was fine, alone wasn't. Not anymore. He'd known that the moment he recognized her, that night they brought her back, when he'd felt joy for the first time in a hundred years. He was selfish, he'd never made any bones about that. He wanted her, and he meant to have her, whether it was right or not. 

But he was starting to discover, too, that there were rewards in thinking of others, and that just confused the hell out of him. He felt as if he and Buffy were constantly teetering on a knife's edge, unbearable brightness on one side, comfortless blackness on the other. And he knew that unless they somehow found a way to balance, she would never really be his. He'd be stuck in the same hell as Riley had been, close to her but never really having her--and while Riley may have shown a surprising tolerance for both scotch and Sunnydale-style male/demon bonding, Spike wasn't exactly eager to take soldier boy's place in Buffy's lack-of-affections.

So, for once in his hundred-plus years as a vampire, he was waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. Destroying his furniture. Replacing it. And then, just for shits and giggles, he'd try a little waiting. Waiting until he was certain he'd tear his hair out and save himself the trouble of stealing peroxide. (Fortunately, style had won out over rage thus far, but it had been a near thing a time or two.) It was totally antithetical to everything he was, and it was driving him mad. But even William the Bloody had known there was no way to force a woman to love him. And he knew that Buffy didn't love him. Yet.

But he'd seen something in her eyes that night, after they'd fallen through the floor and lay panting, stilled for a moment. Up until then it had been all tactile sensations for both of them, all passion and urgency and, for him, sheer, mind-numbing astonishment. His eyes had closed as they hit the basement floor, and when he opened them, almost afraid he was dreaming, he could see nothing but her. She was staring down at him, her pupils dark, her eyes glassy with sex, but she focused even as he watched, wondering what she would do next. Some corner of his mind gibbered that he should be looking around for a stake, seeing as he was pretty sure that if she changed her mind at this point, dying would be a blessing. But she just looked at him, not moving except for the ragged breaths that stirred her hair, and he felt that she was looking right through him, maybe even down to the soul he hadn't known in over a century. Being Spike, he met her eyes defiantly. _This is who I am, Blondie,_ he thought. _Man, demon, the whole package. Take it or leave it._ He could see the corner of her mouth twitch, almost as if she'd heard him, and she nodded almost imperceptibly. Then she moved her hips, _very_ perceptibly, and all rational thought fled like a co-ed in a horror flick.

Brief as the moment had been, it had given him hope. So did the force of her hands and mouth on him, knowing they'd leave bruises, and how he'd marked her in return during the second, third, fourth, and umpteenth times. _Property of_, they stated clearly, with his name in the bruise beneath her chin, her name in the scratches on his back. She denied it later, but he knew. And then she'd slept in his arms, exhausted and sated and trusting, as the thought drifted through his fuzzy brain that this, along with the night he met Dru, just might tie for the most important night of his existence.

Then, of course, there came the next morning, and that lovely, biting word, _convenient_. Many an innocent chair had since vanished into kindling as a result of that little gem. He supposed he hadn't exactly done himself any favors by telling her that the only thing better than killing a Slayer was fucking one. But he'd meant it as a compliment, for fuck's sake--killing a Slayer was a phenomenal experience, not to be taken lightly--and anyway, how was he supposed to think when she was all around him, touching him, turning his brain to mush? So he'd spoken without thinking. And she'd punished him, and _not_ in a good way, with her unique skill of managing to find the one word that would cut right to the bone and fillet him like a fish.

But his defenses were never far away, and he easily showed her what she wanted to see--Spike the bad-ass, all sneers and leers and catlike confidence. He was particularly proud of the panty-displaying moment; now _that_ had been priceless. Well worth the way she'd clocked him for it. Even so, he'd been seething as she left. Her problem, he told himself later as he stalked angrily around his crypt, was that she was just a little slow. She was a Slayer, used to seeing things in black and white, and she wanted him to be one or the other. She had, at various times, accepted both his comfort and his touch, but never yet at the same time. She wouldn't let herself see that the Spike who'd practically taken up residence near her back porch was the same Spike who made her scream his name as she came. And the same Spike who felt no remorse for having killed unnumbered innocent people. 'Course, he was having a little trouble with that concept himself, but at least he wasn't trying to stuff her into some neat little category. And he was getting a bit tired of being the whipping boy while she took her time putting it all together.

But whenever he got so frustrated he wanted to just sod it all and go shake her till her little blunt teeth rattled, he remembered the way she'd looked at him that night. For one breath, for one second, she'd really seen him. All of him. And she'd let him love her anyway. So he forced himself to be patient, to hang around and endure the Scoobies and ruin blanket after blanket with his little daytime strolls. He, who typically charged into his endeavors with the enthusiasm of a bull in a china shop, was learning the value of little things: a touch here, a whisper there, a true smile when she least expected it. Of course, sometimes his temper bubbled over to scald her, but that was all right, too. All part of the dance. All part of making her understand him. 

He could even see he was making progress, inch by inch--the smile on her face the morning he'd turned up in her kitchen, for example. Rueful, mocking, yet not entirely sorry to see him, sliding into a tiny gasp before he'd even touched her. He smiled, remembering. She was a smart girl. She'd figure it out eventually. And until she did, until they figured out how to manage this tenuous balancing act the fates had thrown them into, they'd dance. He'd win some and he'd lose some, and it was likely going to get worse before it got better. But through it all, he couldn't shake the feeling: his time was gonna come. And when it did, he'd be ready.

He turned the corner to the cemetery, saw her half a second before she saw him. She was standing under a streetlight, the bright halo of her hair contrasting with the gaunt shadows in her cheeks. As always, the sight of her seemed to send his knees on holiday, and he had to stop or fall over. Fuck, she was beautiful, from her shorn hair down to her ridiculous shoes. It hit him like a punch in the gut, every time. Then she saw him, and he pulled the mask down quickly, planting his boots, his lips curving into his trademark smirk.

"Slayer." 

"Spike." Her reply was cool. No sign that that same voice had been begging him to touch her not twenty-four hours ago. Oh, how he loved this woman.

"You ready?" He asked it every night, like a ritual, letting the question hang on two levels.

As usual, she only responded to one. "If you are." She hitched a shoulder carelessly, like he'd asked if she wanted him to clear her plate after supper.

He couldn't resist. He leaned forward, enjoying the sound of her accelerating heartbeat, watching her lips part and her eyes half-close involuntarily. "I'm always ready, luv," he whispered.

The sound of her laugh surprised and delighted him. "Yeah, I'm starting to get that," she muttered wryly. He pulled back, and they stood there, motionless, looking at each other. He cocked his head slightly, a question in his eyes. The smile faded slowly from her lips, and for a second he thought she was about to speak. Then she shook herself. _Not tonight_, he thought, and felt the tension in him slide away.

"Come on," she told him. "The nasties aren't going to off themselves."

"Right behind you, pet," he drawled, waiting until she turned away before he allowed himself a tiny smile. _Not tonight_, he repeated silently. _But I'm not going anywhere. And my time will come, sweetheart. Maybe sooner than you think_.

Still smiling, he set off after her.


	2. Slayer

            Buffy sighed as she made her way through the dark streets of Sunnydale, wishing—not for the first time in this freak show she laughingly called her life—that she could somehow get out of patrolling.  Actually, the killing-things portion of it all sounded pretty good; she needed some outlet for everything that was building up inside of her.  Some outlet that didn't involve… him.  Bringing her quickly to the not-so-pleasant (or maybe _too pleasant) aspect of patrolling these days.  She could feel him already, like she had some kind of internal radar.  He was close, but not too close.  Moving towards her, though.  There was probably a metaphor in that somewhere, but she'd always kind of sucked at those types of things.  Those were Giles types of things, not meant for the mind of Buffy.  Besides, Spike wasn't a metaphor, he was Spike, and he was getting awfully tough to avoid.  And she was dreading seeing him more now than she ever had in his pre-chip days._

            Pre-chip Spike had been easy.  He'd brew up some lame evil plan, she'd show up, kick his ass, and he'd slink off to fight another day.  It had even been kind of fun, in a Slayer-y sort of way; there was something inherently _right about having an evil adversary, a worthy opponent, both physically and verbally.  He'd been one of the few who could challenge her, even at the beginning.  They understood each other, hated each other, respected each other, and both of them had a feeling that eventually there'd be only one of them left standing.  Of course, Buffy always assumed she'd be the stand-y one, but she'd have been happy kicking his ass for years on end before it had come to that.  There was something almost comforting about it, actually.  When your life was as chaotic as Buffy's was, any kind of continuity was a relief._

            Then there had come Riley and the Initiative and that whole kettle of really unpleasant government fish, and suddenly it was chips ahoy, and she just didn't feel right about staking Spike anymore.  The balance of power had shifted.  Of course, verbal sparring was well within acceptable limits, but actually killing a creature who was now basically defenseless seemed like a bad habit to get into.  Not to mention a waste of time.  She had her hands full enough killing things that _were dangerous, she didn't need to bother with neutered ex-enemies.  Spike had certainly done his best to make it extremely tempting a time or two--his botched attempt at setting the Scoobies against each other, for example--but overall, she'd have been willing to let him live out his unlife in peace and pig's blood.  If._

            If.  Oh, that big fucking If.  _If he hadn't messed things up.  __If he hadn't moved in on her mom and her sister.  __If he hadn't decided he got off on her constantly beating him up, and chained her in a crypt with his psycho demon ex(es) and demanded that she admit there was a chance for the two of them.  __If he hadn't protected Dawn while Buffy was dead.  __If he hadn't looked at her when they brought her back as if he never wanted to look at anything else.  __If he hadn't sat on her back porch with her a dozen and more times and somehow understood when she wanted silence and when she wanted words._

            If he didn't love her.

            Because as much as she'd tried to deny it, she knew it was true.  He loved her.  It was totally sick and wrong, against Nature and the Powers that Be and any other higher power she'd ever heard of, and he sometimes had a pretty twisted way of showing it, but he loved her.  Without any trace of a soul.  Without any remorse for the hundreds of innocent people he'd killed.  He was a vampire, and she was the Slayer, and he'd proved his love to her at so many times and in so many ways it was useless to pretend it wasn't real.

            So she'd stopped trying.  She knew real love when she saw it.  So Spike loved her.  So what?  OK, _major wiggins, especially at first, but ultimately no big, right?  A soulless vampire could love--well, but not wisely, wasn't that what Dru had said?  Never mind that it called into question everything she'd ever thought about vampires, that he seemed to somehow be developing a conscience, that he made her wonder if a vampire needed a soul in order to find redemption.  Nevermindnevermindnevermind.  Those thoughts were too big for a twenty-one-year-old girl who'd clawed her way out of her own grave just a few months back.  She needed to slay first, ask questions later, and believe that Spike was the exception.  The freak, even.  Poor Spike, caught between worlds.  She should feel sorry for him.  And if he got his kicks by lurking in her front yard and trying to make her feel better when she was depressed, who was she to deny him that?  He was harmless.  She was safe with him.  All was still well in the world of Buffy, at least as it related to Spike._

            And then he'd touched her.

            Sure, she'd initiated it.  She'd been exhausted, angry, desperate to get away from the conflicting mass of emotions that surrounded her friends.  And there he was, so different, so solitary, so straightforward, and so much in love with her.  She'd tried everything else, and she just wanted to stop thinking for awhile…  She was singing before she knew it.  As those icy eyes snapped back and locked on her, she felt a flutter in her stomach and for the first time began to wonder if this was such a great idea.  But it was too late to stop now, he was drawing her like a magnet.  The flutter intensified, expanded into full-grown butterflies.  And then his lips touched hers and everything in Buffyverse turned inside out and upside down.

            She'd asked for fire, but this was more.  He was like lava, pouring into all the little cracks and crevices she'd thought were long dead, lighting her up from the inside.  And yet his hands were so cool on her hot skin, brushing her cheek, sliding over her hip.  He groaned involuntarily, pulling her closer to him, and the desperation in his touch thrilled her.  He wanted her this badly, she could reduce him to this.  Power coursed through her, and she felt in control for the first time since her return to earth.  But even as she began to find some solid footing, he changed the angle of the kiss, and all thoughts of her own power flew from her mind.  _I guess a hundred years' practice makes you pretty good at this stuff, her mind babbled as her knees began to buckle.  She was drifting, melting, lost in him…  _

And suddenly all her Slayer fight-or-flight instincts came roaring to the surface.  Loss of control was bad, loss of control got you dead, and she had to get out of there.  Panic nearly choked her, and she tore herself away without a word, sprinting off into the darkness as if her life depended on it.  She only got a few blocks away before her knees gave out and she slumped to the ground, breathing hard, head whirling, trying not to feel guilty (_for kissing him or for leaving him?), hoping to God he hadn't followed her.  That night, she'd added Spike to the ever-growing list of Things That Confuse the Hell out of Buffy.  It was getting to be a pretty long damn list._

Before long, though, she realized that Spike was in a category entirely by himself on the confuse-o-meter.  The musical extravaganza, and even their little make-out session at the Bronze—those could have been little things, easily explained away.  But then there had been That Night.  That insane, horrible, glorious night when he'd attacked her, when he'd told her that she came back wrong, and she was so twisted up with shock and pain and guilt that she'd kissed him just to get him to shut up, to stop the pain for one second.  But once she'd started, she didn't know how to stop, and her hands seemed to be moving without bothering to consult her brain, and suddenly he was inside her and it was incredible and she would've laughed at the look on his face if she'd been able to breathe.  And then he started moving, and his face was pressed into her collarbone, and he was murmuring incoherently, and she could feel every nerve sizzling like she'd turned into a human firecracker.  She floated weightless and thoughtless on the sensation.  For the first time in months, there was no room in her for pain.

It had taken falling through the floor to bring her back to herself, and even then, it had only been for a second.  His eyes had been closed at first as he lay beneath her, but as soon as he opened them, everything seemed to slide back into focus.  She was overwhelmed by the sudden, inescapable knowledge of where she was, what she was doing.  This was Spike.  Beneath her, inside her.  _Spike.  She was having sex with Spike.  She never knew if that realization would have panicked her, because as soon as she had it, she saw the way he was looking at her.  No shields, no defenses, he was staring at her with naked longing.  Love. Wonder.  Primal hunger.  And a kind of proud defiance.  A challenge, almost, and yet a question at the same time.  __This is me, she could almost hear him saying, __take it or leave it.  She could feel how much he wanted her, feel the effort it cost him to hold perfectly still.  And yet he was giving her the choice, in a way that seemed to suggest she'd be sorry if she turned down what he was offering, humble and confident at the same time.  It was a combination only Spike could have managed.  And for one second, everything was OK.  She didn't need to try to make everything fit together; it just flowed, seamless, simple.  She nodded just the tiniest bit, in answer to his unspoken question, and felt a thrill of joy arrow up her body, into her throat, like hot mercury.  The tightness in her chest eased, for the first time in… well, forever.  Then, in case he hadn't gotten the message, she moved her hips deliberately, and everything fell away again._

The rest of the night was a blur of half-light and marble skin and challenge and caresses she wasn't sure if she'd dreamed or not.  It all felt like a dream, anyway, safe and dark and thrilling and somehow out of time, like a kind of haven where she didn't have to hurt anymore, didn't have to question.  But if there was one thing Buffy Summers had learned, it was that all dreams come to an end sometime.  And this particular one came to a screeching halt when she woke up the next morning, saw Spike--_Spike--lying there like some chiseled, pale, unspeakably cocky Greek god, and remembered:_

Oh, yeah.  This is my life.  And it sucks.

Humiliation.  Shame.  Panic.  Confusion.  She almost wished she'd studied harder for the SATs, if only so she might have known an appropriate word for the way she'd felt that morning.  Though she wasn't even sure they _made words for her particular situation.  __Left my  little sister alone all night while I had sex with my mortal enemy, gee, what do you mean that's never come up before?  Any clarity she'd felt during the previous night vanished like a dusted vamp.  She told herself she hadn't known what she was doing, banished the memory of the challenge and question in those blue eyes, now fixed on her with smug satisfaction._

And it got worse the second they started speaking.  And, astonishingly, even worse when they'd stopped speaking and started kissing again, and, OK, the kissing part was pretty damn good, but then suddenly she realized he was saying something about fucking a Slayer and the shame went right down to her toes.  He'd almost had her with that seemingly sincere, "Stay, I'm stuck here," and not ten seconds later he was proving what a pig he truly was.  And then he had to bring Angel into it, which was _totally uncalled-for, and that was just the last fucking straw._

So she'd said the most hurtful thing she could think of, even took her time to find just the right word that would cut the deepest.  She hadn't been working on witty repartee for years for nothing, right?  For half a second before the anger took over, he looked like she'd just stabbed him.  And in that flash, she felt guilty, and powerful, and then weird for feeling guilty—this was _Spike_, after all—and by that time he was on his feet again, telling her she'd never had it so good as him.  Which may have been true, but she'd have died before she admitted it.  Then the sparring, the threats, the punching, and the leaving, and that pretty much summed up another classic morning-after in the life of Buffy Summers.  Oh, and there had been the panty incident, which she chose to gloss over.  She wondered briefly if he still had them, and then realized that that train of thought could not possibly lead her to any good place, so she shoved it to the back of her mind again.

Spike had told her, after that night, that everything had changed.  And as much as she'd tried to deny it, he was right--for a demon, he was annoyingly perceptive.  And that had as much to do with the change as anything else.  He was dangerous again, now, and he knew it, because she wanted him and just being near him turned her to jelly, and wasn't afraid to use that.  He knew her, as she was now, maybe better than anyone else in her life.  He had a way of cutting through all the bullshit and getting right to the heart of a matter, and that terrified her.  And yet she knew he would never hurt her, and he risked a crispy death most days of the week when he stopped by her house in broad daylight, and sometimes he looked at her with almost childlike wonder at this new intimacy between them.  He'd waltz in with that little we-did-it-and-you-know-it smirk and then half a second later, he'd be saying something so honest and tender it tore at her heart.  She just couldn't figure it out, and the balance of power seesawed so frequently she was beginning to forget which end was up.  

And she needed to know who had the power.  She needed to know what was right and what was wrong.  She was a Slayer, and when it came right down to it, everyone in the world fit into a category: Dangerous or Safe, Weak or Powerful, Good or Evil, Slay or Don't Slay.  It had to be that way, because sometimes she had to make quick decisions that wouldn't wait for her to explore all the intricacies of a situation.  It had worked pretty well, right up through the part where she'd taken one for the team, like a hero should, and jumped into the portal.  But then they'd brought her back, and she didn't know who to trust, and nothing made sense.  Willow was a magic junkie and Xander was marrying a demon and her sister was a mystical key that, as far as they knew, didn't open anything anymore, and Buffy didn't even know if she herself was human.  Everything was falling apart, and she was trying so hard to keep it together.   

Throw Spike into the mix, and it was all just too much.  No one had ever accused Spike of making sense.  He was any and all categories at any given time.  Prided himself on it, even, but it wasn't just an act.  It seemed to come naturally to him, and it drove her nuts.  He'd killed a hundred years' worth of innocent people.  Yet he'd saved the lives of her friends.  He was a soulless vampire.  Yet he loved her, and he clearly loved Dawn, too.  He was evil.  Yet he seemed to understand her on a fundamental level that few of her friends even acknowledged.  He was _so not the right guy for her, and yet in a way he was the obvious choice.  And that scared the holy hell out of her._

To top it all off, she knew that Spike was actually the _least confusing relationship in her life right now.  He'd had no part in dragging her out of Heaven, like Willow and Xander had; he was still around, which was more than she could say for Giles; and, unlike Dawn, he wasn't angry at her for something that wasn't her fault.  As long as Buffy had been the Slayer, everyone had always wanted something from her: protection, guidance, strength, leadership, sacrifice.  And now she even had someone who needed mothering.  Everyone always needed her to do something, to be something.  Difficult things.  Spike, on the other hand, didn't want anything from her, except to be near her.  He didn't take.  He gave.  She didn't have to hold back with him, didn't have to hide--he was strong enough to take anything she might throw at him, physically or otherwise.  And the relief of that was… indescribable._

Then again, this was the same guy who'd spent a century cutting a bloody swath through most of Europe with his psychotic girlfriend, and she had no idea what he'd do if he ever found a doctor who could perform a chipectomy.  Not that he seemed to be scouring the medical community these days, but still.  Buffy had fulfilled her quota of boyfriends who had a tendency to suddenly wake up evil, thanks very much.  And, as long as she was on the topic of Angel, it was difficult to avoid comparing the two.  Even though both vampires would've had steam pouring out their ears at the very idea that they could even be mentioned in the same breath.  _The Two Vampires Who Loved Me, she thought ruefully.  __A cautionary after-school tale.  But then, she compared all the men in her life to Angel.  He was her first love, first lover, first everything, and some part of her would always believe that someday they would find a way to be together._

But Angel was gone, and he was building his own life now in L.A. with Connor and maybe even Cordy, and most of her knew that she had to move on.  Besides, she wasn't sure that Angel would even _want_ to be with her now, things had changed so much.  He had been the perfect romantic hero, her knight in shining armor, and she was always halfway in awe of him.  When she was sixteen, that had been exactly what she wanted, what she'd thought love should be like.  Spike, on the other hand, was an equal, a companion, and he seemed to understand and even love the darkness in her that she was so afraid to let Angel see.  Angel was warmth; Spike was fire.  Angel was subtle; Spike wore his heart on his sleeve.  Angel was safety; Spike was danger.  She also had to admit she liked the way Spike seemed to really _live in this world, that he loved the Sex Pistols the Ramones and __Passions and he cared about whether or not anyone would ever love Pacey.  Angel had always been more of a Proust and Byron sort of guy, which she had respected, but which had always sort of intimidated her. _

Oh yeah, and then there was the sex.  Had she mentioned the sex?  Not really much of an option with Angel, and Riley, while in many ways a truly wonderful guy, was more the strictly missionary-position type.  Maybe it was the military training or something--the easiest position from which to perform the basic act, resulting in mutual pleasure and potential procreation.  With Spike, though, it was a whole new world.  Sensuous, sensual, inventive, and confident, with just a hint of danger; he could turn her on anytime, anywhere, and he gloried in it.  And the flip side was, she could do the same to him--she could drive him to the edge of control with just a twitch of her muscles.  It was intoxicating, empowering, and humbling at the same time.

Which brought her back, again, to the confusion.  The sex with Spike was great, sure, right up until she remembered how utterly, completely, and in all ways _wrong it was.  Pretty much a complete mood-killer.  So she'd say something to drive him away, and he'd look hurt and betrayed, and she'd feel guilty, and then wonder why she was feeling guilty for hurting a soulless killer, if it was even __possible to hurt him (__it is, you know it is).  And by that time they'd be shouting at each other, and she'd stomp off and swear never to touch him again.  Until the next night, when he'd show up in her path.  She couldn't turn him down because it was good to have someone to watch her back, and he was the best training partner she'd had since Faith, and before she knew it the sparring became touching became kissing became sex became guilt became shouting, and they'd be right back in the same cycle.  It was exhausting, but she couldn't seem to stop._

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she couldn't help noticing that she'd said and done a fair number of pretty horrible things to him during those little skirmishes, and he hadn't left town yet.  In her experience, being a male and loving Buffy Summers seemed to have a direct relationship to leaving town, the continent, or sometimes even this mortal coil.  A "tragic chain reaction," Ben had called it, shortly before proving the rule himself.  The list seemed to grow every year: Angel, Riley, Ben, Giles, even her father.  She was sure it was only a matter of time before Xander fell victim to it and took off for parts unknown.  Spike, on the other hand, seemed determined to stay.  He was like some demonic Hell Weeble, wobbling but refusing to fall down.  It was, to a certain extent, tearing the fabric of her reality.  And the longer he stayed, the more the tension built between them, and the guiltier she felt for hiding it from her friends, and the more she sensed that sooner or later he was going to force her to make a decision, and the less prepared she felt to make that decision.  She was holding on to the edge of sanity with the very tippy-tops of her polished fingernails, and she was afraid that the slightest nudge would send her careening off into the great unknown.

Yet here she was, going to meet Spike, the King of the Nudgers.  And his nudges had been feeling more like shoves, lately, and she was already in deeper than she wanted to be.  No way to avoid him without shirking her duties, and in her heart of hearts she knew she really wanted to see him.  Which was frustrating in itself.  If only he would be one or the other--be the warm-and-fuzzy crying-shoulder or the ardent lover, the heartless enemy or the loyal companion.  But she knew that would never happen.  Spike was Spike, and he had his own set of rules, and she was beginning to get the feeling she'd never really figure him out.  So the only solution was to put off the inevitable confrontation as long as possible, and hope that somehow in the meantime she'd manage to find an answer.

She stopped suddenly, feeling every nerve in her body spark.  He was there, behind her.  She could feel the air building up an electric charge between them.  She turned slowly to look at him, standing there with his arms loosely at his sides, ready for action, moonlight slanting across his face.  God, he was gorgeous, from his bleached hair down to his steel-toed boots.  It hit her like a punch in the gut, every time.  He was smirking, as usual, all feline grace and coiled tension.

"Slayer."  His voice, with that rich accent wrapping around every syllable, was pure sex.  Just that one word turned her insides to Jell-O.  And he was doing that defiant little fuck-you thing with his tongue again, curled inside his bottom lip, and she had to rein in her mind before it started having a field day remembering all the other interesting things he could do with his tongue…

On the surface, she was all unruffled calm.  "Spike," she replied coolly, walking towards him.

"You ready?"  He asked her that every night, and she knew he wasn't talking about patrolling.  Yet every night, she pretended he was.

"If you are."  She shrugged, trying to look as if she couldn't care less.

He shattered that illusion easily, just by leaning towards her, a predatory grin curving his lips.  She felt adrenaline start to rush through her, preparing her for whatever might come next.  Her breath caught in her chest.  Damn him.  "I'm always ready, luv," he whispered, his mouth barely brushing her ear.

The laugh that bubbled out of her was totally unexpected, spilling out of her mouth before she could stop it.  "Yeah, I'm starting to get that," she told him, smiling in spite of herself.  He stepped back, his own smile quizzical and slightly pleased.

And then they just stood there, staring at each other, not moving.  Her heart began to race again.  He cocked his head slightly, in that way he had of looking at her like she was some kind of puzzle he was trying to solve.  The question hung unspoken in the silence between them, and for a split second, she almost drew breath to answer it.

Then the panic licked at her suddenly-dry throat, and she couldn't do it.  _Not tonight, she pleaded silently.  __I can't decide, not yet.  She watched a muscle in his cheek relax, and relief flooded through her.  He wasn't going to press it._

"Come on."  She'd just dodged a bullet, and she couldn't wait to change the subject.  "The nasties aren't going to off themselves."  She turned, knowing he would follow.

"Right behind you, pet," he drawled casually, sending chills up her spine.  _Not tonight, she repeated silently, like a mantra.  __Not tonight.  Then, as she heard his footsteps start up behind her, some corner of her brain whispered: __No, not tonight.  But soon._

_Soon._


End file.
